Charcoal Sketch
by Sartorial Elegance
Summary: Future fic, non-canon, dark overtones, some blood, some horror. This will not be frequently updated, I have not the time.


**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Summary: **I'm not going to summarise just yet.

**Pairings: **Harry/Draco (but not yet)

The moonlight gently kissed his long blonde hair as it lay on the black satin pillow. A beautiful contrast between the dark and light that was within his soul; illustrated by the soft and gentle beam that crossed the room from the window illuminating a dappled trail of dust motes in it's wake. He stirred gently in his sleep murmuring almost inaudibly as he stretched his pale tender fingers across the bed by instinct to feel for the warm patch which was missing. Shifting slightly the covers slipped down, in so doing exposing his white shoulder to the light.

Sunlight filtered through the window waking Draco from his dreams, a rhapsodic fantasy where he still had... But it was wrong to think like that, he knew that way lay anxiety and stress.

* * *

"Another coffee love?"

The man in the long black duster coat with the black hair said nothing, but he nodded once. So long it seemed now since he'd been in a different world. It seemed almost a dream now, Hogwarts, the battle with Voldemort then the time he spent in St. Mungo's. They told him he'd recovered but upon mulling it over he knew that deep in his soul there was an aching need that he'd never be able to fill. He fingered the splintered piece of Holly wood in his coat pocket while looking for some money to tip the waitress who was waiting expectantly beside him with his coffee. He paused in his revery and passed her a pound coin and then dropped back into his private world.

A loud bang, the coffee cup dropped to the floor, windows shattered. Someone was screaming over by the counter. Somewhere through the smoke a dark-haired man in a business suit with emerald eyes and glasses stood up and walked towards the door. A flash of purple light leapt through the smoke and he crumpled to the ground lifeless. The man in the duster coat fumbled on the floor looking for his broken glasses as blue flashing lights and loud sirens broke the shocked silence of the scene's aftermath. An ashtray whistled fast through the air towards his head and with lightning-fast reflexes the man grabbed it. As he felt the cold steel of the ashtray against his finger-tips the world around him seemed to retreat and he felt himself being stretched and pulled through space.

* * *

Draco sat up in bed and ordered the house-elf to fetch him a cup of morning coffee (a muggle beverage of which he had grown fond over the years). The sheets fell around his waist exposing his pale white smooth torso to shine like polished gilt in the morning light. He raised himself out of bed and walked over to the open davenport by the window. Reaching in he pulled out some letters which he put to one side and then finally the object of his search, a battered cardboard box. With a little trepidation he opened it and was sat with tears in his eyes looking at the contents. He let out a shuddering sob mid-breath and then closed the box before replacing it within his desk.

Grabbing a pale blue silk dressing gown he walked to the bay window and sat on the window seat overlooking the garden. His tears fell gently into the coffee that warmed his hands and left a small picture in steam on the glass of the window. The morning sun was finally beginning to give up the battle with the clouds as rain swept in over the rhododendron bushes and fell softly on the Acers in the ornamental Japanese garden below Draco's window. The soft hissing of the rain on the paths and Draco's quiet tears were the only sounds to push gently through the quiet ambience of the picture.

To think, he'd once said to him, "Malfoy's never cry." We had so little time, and so much love still to give.

* * *

Cold stone floor beneath his knees, a slight musty smell in the air. Realizing he couldn't see anything; he groped in his coat for a lighter or a box of matches.

"Mr. Potter," a voice growled. "Lesson for you, never sit in public in a chair facing a window."

He felt the air stir as a figure moved beside him, Harry prepared himself to lunge sideways into where he hoped it's legs would be. "That won't be necessary, _Lumos_" growled the unseen adversary. Blue actinic light spilled into the room from a wand tip showing the gaunt haggard outline of Mad-Eye Moody's face with it's grizzled white-grey hair and magical eye rolling in it's socket scanning always around. The light showed the edges of ridged dark stalactites hanging from the ceiling and stalagmites breaking the stone floor of the cave, the gentle dripping of the water that over the millennia had formed these was just audible.

"Just a good job for you that muggle looked more like Harry Potter than you do these days," Moody looked over to him with a half smile visible. "I don't believe them Potter, this is why I'm going to help you out. You have a lot of enemies, I wager you're going to need this." Harry looked up at him questioningly his face hollow and dark under the eyes, no longer wearing glasses. "I had to break into Olivander's for this, apparently the spell's unique to every wand. You have the shards still?" Moody peered into him with both eyes.

Harry emptied his pocket onto the cave floor, with a metallic bounce his pocket torch fell out, several pencils, some holly wood splinters and a golden edged red feather. Moody drew his wand and stood over the pile. "_Contrado Virga Pleno_" He slashed his wand in the air in an arcane manner, his wand trailed golden sparks and inscribed a Celtic knot in the very air itself. In the middle of the glowing knot a pale ghostly phoenix form appeared. The knot began to spin and it's edges to coalesce into one glowing shape. The phoenix flew from the centre of what was now a scintillating sphere of phlogiston to touch the shards and pulled them into the middle of the globe of energy. The globe faded and left Harry's complete wand glowing with a purple light levitating in mid air. Moody smiled, picked up the wand and passed it to Harry.

Harry took the wand and placed it in his back pocket.

"Harry," the old man glared at him "elementary wand safety." He then winked and disapparated with a bang.

For a few seconds, Harry stood there in the darkening cave watching the last sparks of the spell fade. He held his wand aloft and then tested it, the first spell he had cast in two years. "_Lumos_". A calescent light lit the room. Reaching into his pocket Harry checked his cigarettes were intact, feeling the packet was crumpled he pulled one out, a harsh tasting, strong Marlboro red. He straightened the cigarette between thumb and middle finger with a stroking motion and lit it with the now recovered matches. Then he couldn't stop himself, he fell to the floor choked with emotion and sobbed. So much dark water had passed under the bridge of his life since he last held his wand. His duster coat enfolded him and bunched up on the floor picking up dust, Harry didn't care. Sucking hard on the cigarette in his left hand and gripping onto the wand in his right he sat on the dirt floor with tears streaming from his beautiful emerald orbs.

Alastor had seemed so sure, but the problem was Harry wasn't. He didn't know whether Moody was right or not, deep in his soul a demon niggled and bit. It told him that he was not innocent, that he was responsible. Along with this thought though was a pain, a pang in his heart. A longing for a blonde head buried against his shoulder, the warmth of a delicate body against him at night. The caring love shared between two people who were both powerful and sensitive to their emotions.

* * *

The silhouetted shadows flickering at the edge of the soft blue light from Harry's wand moved gently like liquid. He sat there with his arms around his legs and rocked gently. The smoke from the trembling right hand rising translucent up to the stalactite covered roof. The condensation of his breath rising and intermingling with the smoke on it's journey towards the roof. He straightened his crumpled black duster coat as he stood, brushed the dirt off it and then the tears from his cheeks, not noticing that as he did so he left lines of dirt in their place. His reflex to push his glasses up his nose still there, he reached up and then remembering he hadn't worn glasses for years, he shrugged. He realized he knew not where he was, nor the time of day.

* * *

The blonde walked barefoot downstairs, past the beautiful oak bannisters and into the hallway clutching the still warm cup of tears and coffee to his chest. Sobbing slightly he walked out into the garden. The rain was falling softly on the plants and the smell of the leaves and the wet garden caught him in it's gentle natural embrace. The soft red of the acer leaves accentuating and contrasting with his own pain. The pain of a heart taken from a breast and rent. He knelt on the soaked grass dropping the cup with his arms outstretched. His blue silk dressing gown beginning to become slick against his beautiful torso as it took in more and more water. His pale hands elegant in the pose of the kneeling martyr to love, his soft blonde hair forming wet ringlets against his forehead as the water dripped down from his own eyebrows into his eyes and ran down to the tip of his perfect nose. Then the sobs came hard and fast and he buried his face and chest in the cold damp lawn with his hands over his eyes. Eventually he rolled onto his back and lay there cruciform watching the sky change and the trees move as the water fell on his silk gown now stained with green and brown.

The sky moved past as he lay there and then cold and shivering he snatched himself from his fugue-like state stood up and with his finger-nails raked red tracks down his white cheeks. In his mind as the blood flowed out so too the pain decreased. The water took the blood and washed it as it slowly welled up to join the other colours on the expensive blue silk. An absolution by the elements and blood, but he was not the sinner. Maybe he was, maybe that was why he deserved this. He walked in through the wooden framed patio doors and walked back to his rooms to sit once again on the window-seat with another cup of coffee. So this was how it felt after one year. He sat there watching the sunlight battle with the rain for dominance over the skies and the earth.

He was disturbed shortly afterwards by an owl tapping softly at his window. It shook it's wet feathers out and waited on the ledge as he opened the window and received a copy of the Daily Prophet. He placed the money for it in the pouch and watched the owl depart. He hadn't been a subscriber to the paper for a while now. Curious as to the events of the world beyond his rooms and garden he opened the paper. His heart leapt and then fell leaden as he read the news, "Harry Potter spotted in London". It was nothing new, shortly after he disappeared the papers had about as many sightings of the boy who lived as pages. Then he read further "Auror patrols will be doubled in the London area". This meant the ministry was taking the sighting seriously. Maybe there was something to it after all.

When hope is all you have, you do not want to entreat with optimism for when your hope is shattered then you are truly left with nothing.

* * *

"I get the feeling we are banging our heads against a brick wall with the Potter investigation." Hermione's voice echoed around the Ministry council chamber. "I think it highly likely that he will attempt to return to Draco, as such we need to place constant guards around Malfoy Manor." It pained her to continue; "Order the Auror Hit squads to surround it and tell them that permission has been granted for the use of unforgivables. It is not expected that we will question him."

Somehow she didn't feel right, she didn't understand why Harry would have behaved the way he did following Voldemort's death. She hated herself for sending him to Azkaban, she hated Dumbledore for putting Harry in the position he was in.

Augustus Griff, the spokesman for St. Mungo's and Wizarding Health raised his hand to speak, Hermione acknowledged him and he politely rose to his feet. "I believe it is imperative that the nature of his crimes be disclosed, we cannot expect the Auror's to kill a suspect when even they don't know the reasoning behind it."

Two years previously Harry had been sent to Azkaban, he had miraculously escaped shortly after his arrival. The sentencing had been carried out privately by Albus Dumbledore, Hermione was the clerk to the court and finally Cornelius Fudge. The nature of the courts decision and reasoning was clear to those within the court room. Hermione however could not forget the look of betrayal on Harry's face as the Dementors closed in to escort him from the place. He was to be sentenced to Azkaban for life. Nothing of this trial had ever been disclosed beyond the room. The Wizarding press had speculated wildly on the reasoning but nobody had ever come close to the truth.

A more haunting memory of Hermione's was the tear-streaked face of Draco when she informed him later of the courts decision in a bar in Muggle London.

* * *

The bar was covered in beautiful red plush with a hardwood floor and nouveau wave sculptures around the open glass windows. Draco was sat there with two drinks in front of him, a vodka martini for himself and a cosmopolitan. The stool next to him was vacant and a deck of marlboro red cigarettes were sat unopened on the counter. He turned as Hermione walked in with a smile on his face. Then looked curiously at Hermione's eyes.

"Where's Harry, Hermione. I thought he'd be here with you to celebrate his honourable acquittal." Draco, looked at Hermione confused.

"Oh, Draco, I'm sorry." The words echoed around in his head he felt like he was swimming as the waves of despondence and depression washed over him.

"So when's he going to be back." The small silver chain of Draco's hope held out against the fear and disbelief.

"He was found guilty, and has been taken to Azkaban for life Dray. I'm sorry." Hermione was crying.

"But why? He hasn't done anything." Draco gripped his cocktail glass and shattered it in his hand feeling the blood slowly drip. "He wouldn't have done anything... he..." The tears shone in his eyes.

Hermione pulled him into a hug, her motherly instincts to calm the beautiful tearful young man in front of her. Draco looked to the bar and saw Harry's drink waiting for him, and his cigarettes. The tears flowed free and fast.

* * *

Passing glimpses of clarity in the ashen black charcoal on grey canvas world in which I live. The saviour of the wizarding world is only the saviour as long as there's something to save. While Voldemort existed I held importance in the hearts and minds of the community. With his death my power too waned. Today's big hit, tomorrow's old news.

My world painted this way by all that I have seen and done. Too many friends hurt or killed too much suffering. All brought back by Azkaban, all the good memories have a companion black memory to tarnish them now. Held back in the bitter, fomenting cess-pit of my heart. Why can I never forget the bad, the good seems easy to forget and much of what I have done now seems as trivial to me as to the papers who at one time brandished the-boy-who-lived as a weapon against the darkness treat me. Azkaban was not for me, I knew that the day I fled from the gates.

I lost most of what I care for, now I don't even know if I still care. I cannot say I suffered the most for doing so would be selfish and vain. What I can say is that my memories of the suffering are still fresh and give me no respite. Seeing friends die in front of me, class-mates but nineteen years old falling in a war that was not of their making. My own lovers hair floating in a pool of his blood sparkling torch-light reflecting off the white-blonde hair turning brown in the sticky drying fluid.

Following wherever my stream of consciousness goes, that is my life these days. Trapped for two years in the muggle world. Then to be rescued from an apparent assassination attempt by the one man who stands for law and order the most. Paranoid to the utmost Alastor Moody. Confusion reigns supreme in the abyss of my brain. It would be easier to know just what I had done to deserve this treatment.

* * *

In the drawing room at the cedar wood desk sits a lady with dark circles under her eyes and bushy hair down to her shoulders. The untapped long cylinder of ash hanging from the cigarette in her hand as the smoke creates a small pall in the air. Papers on the desk in front of her with freshly broken seals, seals from 2 years ago. She herself had sealed these papers. Harry would never understand why she was doing as she did. But the evidence had been clear and incontrovertible. Concise proof of his guilt. But how could anything of this nature be deemed concise?

A house elf dressed in finest livery appeared with a loud pop and deposited a cup of dark Jamaican coffee with a scent about it of rum and roasting wood in front of her. She had not changed all that much. In those years since she became Fudge's second he had allowed her some reign in the Ministry. She had passed a mandatory ruling on the treatment of house-elfs; now they wore livery, received time off and were paid for their service. They were paid a miserable pittance.

She placed her hand over her forehead and gently massaged her brow, dropping her elbow onto the desk surface and finally taking a sip of the steaming cup. She felt more guilty than she was ever sure Harry had been for what she had inflicted on her best friend. What had she inflicted; however? He had escaped, but what was his state of mind? She remembered seeing him in St. Mungo's seeing his face as he barely recognized anyone around him. Wondering when he'd ever pull through. Worrying about him. Then that wonderful year after the liberation of the world as they knew it. Herself, himself, Ron, Draco all the rising stars of the new world. Fashionable parties, glamorous dresses, access to the best libraries and facilities in the country. What had happened to change him so much?

* * *

Two furtive black clad figures touched down on brooms, signalling to each other with fluid hand gestures as they landed on the flinty escarpment under the cover of darkness. Wands out, the two moved like assassins, keeping low as they passed along the lines of bushes, never breaking the lines of the inky pools of darkness they followed, sticking to the shadows. One looked up and nodded to the other, in a snapshot of moonlight you could just make out the scars on the face of the second as they carefully wended their way towards a cleft in the landscape.

The first motioning for silence they moved on deftly into the entrance of the crack. The second muttered a charm as he pointed his wand first at his own face and then at his partners. Their pupils grew wide and dark to cater for the low-light conditions within. Moving into the winding caves with the utmost of care they continued. A wickedly curved knife visible on the belt of the first in the last of the moonlight before they turned a corner into the pitch-blackness.

* * *

Draco watched as auror hit squad members patrolled the outside of his property. He stood in the window wrapped in a black dressing-gown the cuts on his arms hidden by it's long sleeves. He knew he must do something to warn Harry.

The aurors had arrived about two hours earlier and surrounded the perimeter of the property, leaving teams of three on each entrance. Somehow they even knew about the secret ways of coming and going from Malfoy Manor; Draco himself had been placed under house arrest for his own safety.

"Safety" he snorted, he knew Harry would never harm him. The papers could paint whatever picture they chose but it seemed that most of the time the papers chose to ignore this news. Which must mean it is important. He had a warm feeling in his heart that he may again see his lover, but also deep down the fear, worry, tension and anxiety that he may lose him just as quickly. 'To Merlin with it!'. He thought as he strolled out to take a walk in the grounds, a patrol of three aurors shocked to attention following him as he made his way out of the door and across the gardens towards the gates.

* * *

A figure crept stealthily from the darkness, a shadow creeping between two stalagmites. It moved slowly across the cave towards the black-clad form curled up on the cold stone floor. Signalling behind it in the shadows with a beckoning finger. Another wraith-like figure moved from the hiding place near the entrance to this cavern. The pair flitted across the floor, wands in their hands pointed as if to be ready for anything.

The figure on the floor sat up, spun on his heel and drew his wand ready for battle.


End file.
